


The Hamilton Job

by prouvaireafterdark



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Crimes & Criminals, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvaireafterdark/pseuds/prouvaireafterdark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SilverFlint Heist!AU inspired by Ocean's Eleven</p><p>The Rogers Museum in London is a formidable establishment, but when James Flint finds out that Lord Alfred Hamilton's prized collection of art and jewelry is going on temporary exhibition there, well, he just can't ignore the opportunity. With the help of his old friend Charles Vane, and a dozen other criminals, they just might have a shot at wealth beyond their wildest imaginations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take this moment to publicly thank ellel for all of the help she’s given me in planning this fic. Seriously, this fic would not exist without her and I’m eternally thankful :) <3
> 
> I have it rated M for now because language, but trust me, kids, there'll be porn later. I promise ;)

_James McGraw, it is our pleasure to inform you that your request for probation was granted. You will be released from this facility first thing tomorrow morning and will be expected to make contact with your designated probation officer within twenty-four hours of your release. Should you violate any of the terms set on your probation, you will promptly be returned to this facility to serve out the remainder of your sentence._

An alarm blared as the chain-link fence that separated James from the outside world finally opened. After four years of incarceration, James relished that first breath of fresh English air. He had of course been outside in the yard during his four year stay, but it was somehow sweeter now that he was once again a free man.

Just as any person under lock and key, James had given much thought to what he would do when he was released. He would patch things up with Miranda, surely, perhaps see what Charles was up to, but it was not until the night before his hearing that he’d figured out his next move. He’d been in the rec room, flipping idly through channels on the ancient television set, when he saw an unpleasantly familiar face on the screen that made him freeze.

The BBC’s breaking news for the hour was an announcement from Lord Alfred Hamilton; a man James had almost violently disliked from the moment Thomas had introduced them. The most esteemed lord was confirming that his prized collection of jewelry and art would be on temporary public display for the first time ever at the Rogers Museum of Fine Art in London.

James’ mouth had spread into a determined grin. He knew exactly what he was going to do when he was released. He was going to steal from Alfred Hamilton, and he couldn’t wait to get started.

Before he began his crusade, however, James had a very important visit to make. 

When James returned to London that evening, he was relieved to find that Miranda still lived in the house in Knightsbridge they'd shared with Thomas. It had the same clean, white facade that he remembered, with Ionic columns framing the doorway. Growing up, James had never had much money, but Miranda and Thomas both came from wealthy families. Once upon a time, the very idea of living in this neighborhood would have been a pipe dream, but, after meeting the Hamiltons, he had come to call it home. 

James took a deep breath before he knocked. It was late, nearly midnight, but he knew Miranda would be awake. He could picture her in his mind’s eye, curled up with a book, perhaps her well-worn copy of _Don Quixote_  in their oversized armchair. 

The door opened and there stood Miranda, her brown hair piled atop her head and her reading glasses pushed to the end of her nose. James’ lips quirked into a smile. He had been right after all. 

“James,” she said, no small amount of shock in her voice. She looked at a loss for words.

“May I come in?” he asked. The question felt strange on his tongue considering he’d lived there for  years and it was technically still his legal address, but he’d done it anyway out of respect for Miranda. Their last conversation had been anything but pleasant, and he did not want to assume she would be willing to entertain him tonight. Luckily, she was, as she stepped aside without a word so he could enter. 

He walked down the narrow hallway, past the stairs that led to the second floor, and into the living area. It had been four years since he’d stepped foot inside this house, but in that time it had stayed very much the same. Books were piled high on the mahogany coffee table, and the deep purple couch was against the large window at the back looking out to the small yard, framed by sheer silver curtains. Mounted photographs lined the walls among the paintings Miranda had collected, but he dared not look at them just yet. Memories were already flooding back, and to see them preserved in an snapshot from another life would threaten his composure.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked, already setting the kettle on the stove in the adjoining kitchen.

“Love one, thank you,” he said, and took a seat on the couch. He studied his hands intently as he thought of what to say. 

“Unless I’m mistaken,” Miranda started when she returned, "your sentence wasn’t supposed to be finished for another eight months."

“I was released early,” James explained. 

“Yes, I can see that,” she said, relaxing into the sofa beside him. “Would you care to tell me why you didn’t call to tell me? I would have brought you home.” _Home_ , Flint thought, and he wondered if this house could ever really be that for him again. 

“I didn’t want to assume that,” he said, and he’d begun to fidget, eyes on his hands as he moved them. “We’ve barely spoken in years, I wasn’t sure you would even want to see me."

“James,” she spoke his name softly, and when he met her gaze, she was leaning toward him on the couch. “I love you. No matter how much time passes or how many arguments we have, that will never change, you have to know that. The reason I kept my distance from you was because it had become clear to me that you were not to be reasoned with. You were going down a path I could not follow, and I knew I needed to let you come to me. Now that you’re here, you’re more than welcome to stay."

Emotion welled up beneath his chest, and he reached for her hand. She grasped his tightly, and tugged him closer so she could embrace him.

“I missed you,” James murmured into her shoulder. He could smell the delicate perfume Thomas had picked out on her skin, and he screwed his eyes shut tight to keep himself together. Prison had given him an abundance of time to process his grief, and he was definitely in a place of acceptance these days, but being in this house and seeing Miranda again after all this time, it was too much all at once. 

“I know,” she replied, and smoothed a hand down the curve of his head, playing with ends of his hair. They stayed like that for a long moment, just enjoying each other’s presence, until the tea kettle whistled and Miranda rushed to turn it off before the neighbors could have something to complain about.

When she returned with their tea, the mood was markedly lighter. 

“So why were you let out early?” Miranda asked. 

“Good behavior.”

That got a smile out of her. “Are they quite certain they released the right man?” 

James huffed a laugh. “I’ll have you know I was a model prisoner."

They talked like that for another hour, getting back into the grove of their former camaraderie that had been so easy. When their conversation was trailing off, Miranda yawned and stood up from the couch. 

“As much as I would love to keep this up, I have work in the morning,” she said.

“Right, how is the V&A treating you these days?” James asked. Miranda had just started work as an assistant curator at the Victoria and Albert Museum on Exhibition Row when they’d met, and she’d quickly risen in their ranks.

“Oh, I’ve moved to the Rogers Museum down the road,” she said, and if James were drinking something he would’ve choked on it. “The owner, Woodes, offered me a higher position and more freedom to curate what I like. I didn’t find out until after I’d accepted his offer that the reason he sought me out specifically was because he was after Alfred’s precious fucking collection and, as his daughter-in-law, I would be uniquely situated to organize a meeting,” she said, sounding frustrated. She waved her hand and said, “But that’s a story for another time, I’m exhausted. You can sleep wherever you like. I expect you remember where the fresh linens and blankets are.”

James said nothing as she went upstairs for bed. He was running over what she’d said in his mind and he couldn’t figure out if this new revelation was a potentially useful angle or if it meant he was dead in the water. 

Well, if there was one thing James was certain of it was that this heist just got more complicated. It was no matter, he’d decided. Never let it be said that James McGraw wasn’t up for a challenge. He’d just have to make sure Miranda stayed out of it, for her sake.

 

The following evening, James found himself inside a posh nightclub in London looking for an old friend. He was leaning against the bar, nursing a beer, when he spotted him across the room.

He’d heard Charles Vane had taken to running illegal poker games and the odd smalltime theft ever since Eleanor Guthrie blacklisted him. Judging by the utter boredom on Vane’s face as he leaned back on the plush leather couch where he sat surrounded by former child actors, he had heard right.

James decided not to approach him here, and instead scribbled a note on a napkin and handed it to the bartender. The woman looked at it, confused.

“See that man over there? Long hair, looks like he’s having a bad night?” he asked, and she nodded. “Bring him this and a shot of Captain Morgan,” James slid a tenner across the counter to her and left the bar.

James waited in the booth at the back corner of an old pub named The King’s Head. He’d kept the note vague, with only a place and time, but Charles would know it was him.

See, James’ colleagues knew him as James Flint, and one night on a job in Belgravia, when James was giving orders to his crew, Charles had facetiously shouted “Aye, Captain!” A bad joke, yes, but the nickname Captain Flint had stuck. The occasional bottle of Captain Morgan had become something of an inside joke between the two of them. 

The front door opened, the bell jingling above the doorway as Vane strode inside. His eyes scanned the pub until they fell on James, and his mouth twitched up into a smirk. As he approached, James stood up to greet him.

“Vane,” said James, tilting his chin upward.

“Captain,” said Vane, his grin deepening ever so slightly as he pulled James into a hug. He clapped the older man on the back once and drew back. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

James smiled as he took his seat. “I could say the same to you,” he said, gesturing toward the seat opposite him with an open palm. “Four years is a long time.”

“Yeah, I heard you got pinched,” said Vane, joining James at the table. “How the fuck did that happen?”

“Let’s call it a momentary lapse of judgment and leave it at that,” said James. “How’s the poker business?”

“Fucking terrible,” said Vane. “The money’s shit and the company’s worse.”

“What happened to Jack and Anne?”

“We parted ways a while back,” said Vane. “They wanted proper jobs and they couldn’t do it with me there. Eleanor made sure of that.” 

“Sounds like you need a job,” said James. 

“You offering?” 

“I might be,” smirked James.

“Alright, tell me what you got.”

James reached into his pocket and produced a folded newspaper article. The headline read, _LORD ALFRED HAMILTON’S FAMED PRIVATE COLLECTION ON DISPLAY._ Vane looked it over briefly before handing it back. 

“So this is personal for you,” said Charles as he read the name. His voice lacked the judgment James would have expected from others, and for that he was grateful.

“Yes,” James admitted. “Though when I tell you the take I think you’ll see why this job would be appealing to someone other than myself.”

“How much is it worth?”

“£500 million, give or take,” said James. He remembered Miranda telling him about it once, and she was more than qualified to speak on the monetary value of art considering her training as a curator. “Though, that includes the paintings, which would be too hot to sell. Sticking with the jewels, I’d say we’re looking at a £250 million job. It’ll take a crew of maybe 10 or 11 people and weeks if not months of planning, but I think we can pull it off.”

“You want 10 people?” Vane asked, and James knew he’d be surprised. For a normal jewelry heist, 10 people was erring on the side of excessive. “Where is the collection being housed?” James sighed, knowing what was about to come.

“The Rogers Museum of Fine Art.”

“Jesus. You want to rob the fucking _Rogers Museum_?” Charles’ eyes widened. “That place is a fortress, no one has ever been able to break in before."

“Just because it’s never been done, doesn’t make it impossible,” James insisted. His lips turned up in a wry smile then, as he said, “Don’t tell me you’re not up for the challenge.”

Vane seemed to think it over before leaning back in his seat. “Fuck it, yeah. Let’s do it. Fuck knows I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Gaining access to the security plans for the museum was easy enough. In their line of work, there was always a friend of a friend or someone you could blackmail who could get you what you needed. In this case, it happened to be a man named DeGroot who kept shooting disapproving looks over his shoulder at Flint and Vane as he kept watch while the two men went over the blueprints. 

Flint held the flashlight while Vane studied the plans, arms extended in front of him on the table as he looked over the images. 

“I’d say you were right about the number of men we’d need to pull this off,” Charles started. “We’ll need to run several games at once.” 

“We should make a list when we’re done here, I have some people in mind,” said Flint. 

“Yeah, me too,” said Vane, but he sounded distracted. When he met Flint’s eyes he looked like he was preparing himself for something. "We’ll need someone to finance this or we’ll never get off the ground. Something tells me you already have someone in mind for that too.” 

“She’s our only choice, Charles,” said Flint, and he did feel a little bad about that. “Unless of course you can think of another obscenely wealthy friend of ours whose ambition often overrides logical thinking.” Vane crossed his arms and stared at him before he sighed and looked away. 

“You know she’s gonna tell us to get the fuck out the minute she sees me, don’t you?” There was something about Vane’s tone that surprised him. He’d expected anger, maybe frustration, but for the first time in his life Flint heard Vane sound resigned. It dawned on Flint then that, even after the years of separation that followed her betrayal, his friend was still in love with Eleanor. 

The irrevocable hold a lover can have on a person was something James was intimately familiar with. Thomas would have a grip on his heart until the end. However, this was not the time nor the place to ask Vane about it, so Flint filed that information away and chose a different tactic. 

“Think about it this way,” Flint began. “If we are successful in obtaining this prize, I can convince Eleanor to restore your good reputation so you can start working again. Assuming you haven’t managed to convince her of that on your own by then.” 

“You’re confident of that, are you?” asked Vane. 

“Of course I am."  

Vane said nothing for a moment before he snatched the plans off the table and rolled them up. "We’d best get moving,” he said, and then they were off without another word. 

“Get the fuck out,” Eleanor Guthrie stood before them, a scowl on her face. 

After studying the plans some more the night previous, Flint and Vane decided it was time to make their case to Eleanor. When they’d showed up at her penthouse, they had been lucky to run into Mr. Scott, Eleanor’s right hand man. If they hadn’t, they never would have even gotten through the door. When Eleanor saw Flint, she smiled and went to hug him, but over his shoulder she’d caught a glimpse of Vane and immediately turned cold. 

“I told you she’d say that,” Vane muttered, turning to Flint before he looked back to Eleanor. 

“Please, Eleanor, just hear us out. We have business we’d like to discuss with you,” said Flint, refusing to be deterred. 

“I’m not interested in anything he has to say,” she said, her blue eyes piercing. 

“This is bigger than your relationship problems,” Flint snapped. He took a breathe and continued, "Trust me, you’ll want to hear this." Eleanor narrowed her eyes, considering for a moment. 

“Fine,” she huffed. “Follow me.” 

They walked through the penthouse to the room Eleanor had converted into an office. There was a leather sofa against a wall that looked new, and her desk was immaculate save for a neat pile of papers and a desktop computer. The entire wall at her back was made of glass, and everything in the room was black, white, or chrome. Flint suspected it had more to do with looking professional and intimidating than it did with Eleanor’s actual taste. 

Eleanor took her seat behind her desk and gestured to the two chairs in front of it. 

“Make it quick,” she said. 

Charles sat quietly next to Flint and let him lead the pitch. As he spoke, Charles studied Eleanor’s face. She was still as beautiful as she was the day he’d met her. 

She’d been no older than seventeen, young and fearless, when he saw her from the lift he was riding up to her father’s office with Teach. It took weeks before he’d been able to find her to talk to her alone. She was unlike anyone he’d ever met before, so sure of herself and authoritative in the way she spoke to people and walked around her father’s business like she already owned it. 

For a few years, they’d had it all. So much had changed in the decade since then, but he could never quite let go. She’d made him feel invincible, and that isn’t something you can just forget. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” her harsh reply pulled him from his reverie, and he tuned into the conversation once more. “Woodes Rogers has the tightest security of any museum in London, if not the entire bloody country. It’s never been cracked.” 

“We’re working on a plan,” said Charles. Eleanor’s eyes flicked over to him and he forced himself to look casual. “Once we put a crew together, we’ll have a better idea of what’s going to work.” 

“So you don’t have a plan yet,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back in her chair. 

“We have a plan, but we need to consult with a crew to make sure it’ll all work on their end, which it _will_. The people we have in mind are the best there is. Unless you don’t think you’re capable of moving the jewels, I don’t see why we can’t pull this off,” said Flint. 

“I am more than capable,” she said, disliking the challenge to her abilities. “You’re expecting me to take a lot of this on faith, Flint. Tell me why I should.” 

Flint nodded slowly, looking around at the room around him. 

“This is a nice office,” he started. “Expensive furnishings, excellent view. It isn’t yours, though, is it? Not really. Richard Guthrie, your miserable shit of a father, owns this entire building. Your clients are his clients that he has chosen to give you. You do twice the work he does, earn twice the profits he does, but people still see him as the one who should be in charge. As long as he controls this business, he controls your future; he controls you. If you help us take this prize, you will have the resources to secure yourself a future free of him. You could steal his clients, begin your own venture separately from him, you could try to buy him out of the company; I honestly don’t give a shit what you do with the money, but the fact remains that you can use this as an opportunity to claim what you are owed. If we pull this off, the world will never again underestimate the power and ambition of Eleanor Guthrie.” 

For a moment, no one said a word. Charles was trying not to look impressed by Flint’s speech, lest he break the spell he’d just cast over Eleanor. Playing against Eleanor’s insecurities was a bold move, but it was the only card Flint had to work with. 

“Alright,” she said, and her lips broke into a smile. “You have a deal.” 

“Excellent,” Flint smiled widely. He stood up and extended his hand to Eleanor. She reached forward to take it and shook it once. “It’ll take us time to gather everyone we need, but when we do we’ll let you know and set up a meeting.” 

“I suppose I’ll see you then,” said Eleanor, and her eyes flickered to Charles as she spoke. 

Flint nodded and said, “We can see ourselves out.” He headed for the door without waiting for her reply. 

Charles stood and went to follow Flint, but he hesitated on his way out the door. He just stood there for a moment, facing the exit, warring with himself. He wanted to say _something_ to her, _anything_ if it meant he could try to close this gap between them. Even if he couldn’t win her back, he needed to find a way to convince Eleanor to remove the ban she’d placed on him. He couldn’t live like this anymore, teaching posh assholes how to play cards like he wasn’t good for anything else. Charles was a proper criminal, and he _needed_ to get back into the only world he’d ever really belonged in.

In the end, he turned to Eleanor, who sat there staring at him expectantly. 

“I know this doesn’t change anything between us, and I don’t expect it to, but…” he paused, and continued after a breath. “It’s good to see you,” he said, and to anyone but Eleanor the tenderness in his voice may have been shocking. Her expression softened minutely, and she looked like she wanted to say something, but he turned around and left the room before she could.

Flint was waiting for him in the hallway. When Charles caught up with him he couldn’t help but say, “That was a nice speech. You practice it in the mirror?”

“A little, yeah,” Flint said honestly. "Why, do you think I rushed it? It felt like I rushed it.”

“No, it was good. Very firm. The ‘claiming what you’re owed’ part was a little much, though.”

“Mm, a bit, yeah,” said Flint, and then they were in the lift. “It worked, though.”

Charles shook his head. However this job ended, he had a feeling it would be one hell of a ride. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow ok I'm really nervous about posting this, I hope you liked it!  
> Oh, also, you can follow me on tumblr if you want! My url is the same as it is here


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be longer, but it ended up being so long that I needed to break it up into 2 chapters lol I hope you enjoy it!

The first person on their list of recruits was Jack Rackham, otherwise known as Calico Jack, conman extraordinaire. He was supposedly deep under cover and unreachable, but Charles asked around. It was lucky he had; by the time they found him, Jack was about to be arrested.

It was late evening when they pulled up at the scene. Three squad cars and an ambulance were parked outside a building in Amsterdam. Their sirens were off, but their lights flashed bright in the relative dark of the street. Red and white tape blocked off the press that had started to arrive, but beyond it, Flint could see a police officer wrestling Jack out of the building in handcuffs, a group of other similarly detained men close behind. 

Flint passed the bag that was in his hand to Vane. “Set the charge,” he said, and then he straightened his suit jacket and began walking toward the scene.

The officer pushed Jack toward a squad car, and as Flint approached he could hear Jack trying to talk his way out of his current situation.

“There really must be some mistake, I assure you I am not the man you gentlemen seem to think I am,” Jack sounded calm, but his body language was tense. “I’ve never even heard of a man name-“ 

“Well, if it isn’t Jack Rackham,” interrupted Flint as he ducked under the caution tape to address the two men. The officer looked at him, confusion in his eyes, and Jack stifled a grin by biting his bottom lip. Flint held up a fake badge before the officer even had time to ask. “My team at Interpol has been after this one for years.”

The officer squinted at the badge, and before he had time to process what he’d said, Flint was on him again.

“He’s quite the bullshit artist. He’s managed to steal millions before my men could close in on him. Have you caught his partner, the explosives expert? She should be around here somewhere,” he said, and Jack protested, struggling in the officer’s grip at the mention of Anne.

Flint grabbed Jack by the shoulder and slammed him forward against the door of the car. “You stay here,” Flint growled at Jack, entirely for the officer’s benefit. “Hey, get Jansen, will you? I need a word before we take this wanker away.”

“Sorry, who?” the officer asked.

“Jansen! Now!” Flint got up in his face, and the officer shrank away in fear, running in the direction of the detectives at the far end of the scene.

“Hey, Jack, how’s it going?” Flint asked, voice light as he started picking the lock on Jack’s cuffs.

“Much better, thank you. Not that I don’t appreciate the help, but why are you here?” asked Jack.

“Charles and I are putting a job together. Interested?”

“ _God_ , yes, I can’t wait to work with some proper fucking professionals,” Jack said, and turned around as the cuffs came off. “You can’t imagine how insufferable working with those imbeciles was.”

“You can tell us all about it when we’re out of here,” Flint said, pulling Jack toward the tape.

“Where is Chas anyway?” Jack’s answer came in the form of an explosion somewhere down the block. “Ah, good show." 

Flint and Jack hurried down the street to safety, easily slipping away in the confusion.

 

The next morning, Charles was on a flight to Spain and Flint and Jack were outside eating breakfast at a café in Brussels.

“So where are Anne and Max now?” asked Flint, sipping from his cup of tea.

“They went on an extended holiday in the French Riviera while I was working. Anne’s wanted in the Netherlands, so she couldn’t exactly come with me, and Max jumped at the chance to show her around,” said Jack, and Flint was pleased to find no edge in his tone. Having once been a happy member of a threesome himself, he knew most people did not approve of or understand polyamorous relationships. Even though it was none of his business, the fact that Jack seemed to have embraced it made him happy. 

“I want you to meet them there and explain the job,” said Flint. “Though, before you leave, you have another call to make.” 

“Who did you have in mind?” asked Jack. 

“I believe you know Mr. Featherstone and his wife Idelle?” asked Flint. 

“Ah, yes,” Jack said thoughtfully. “Chas and I worked with them a few times. I doubt there’s a security system out there they couldn’t crack.” 

“Let’s hope you’re right about that. Do you have a secure way to contact them?” asked Flint.

“Yes, of course,” said Jack, taking a sip of his coffee. Flint stood up and tossed a few banknotes on the table. “Where are you off to?”

“Back to England. Northamptonshire,” Flint said. 

“Right,” said Jack, understanding. “Picking up Gates’ boy, are you?” 

“That’s the idea,” said Flint. “I’ll be in touch,” he added as he slipped on his sunglasses and walked away to hail a cab back to the airport.

 

“I feel like this used to be fun,” said Featherstone, kicking his legs against the rooftop generator he sat on. “Did this used to be fun, or did I just fucking make that up because I’m so in love with you?” 

Idelle looked up from the camera in her grip to give her husband an exasperated look. “Would you hush? Just another few minutes and we’ll have what we need.” They were on a rooftop across the street from a swanky apartment building in London. There were no CCTV cameras with a good view of their mark’s apartment that they could hack into, so they’d decided to install their own. 

“No, honestly, I mean, we’ve been peeping on rich arseholes to sell their secrets for two years now since we settled down and I can’t think of one day we’ve actually had fun doin’ it.” 

“So what, are you saying you regret marrying me?” Idelle asked, though she knew that wasn’t what he’d meant. 

“What?!” Featherstone yelped, and hopped off the generator to rush toward her. “No, ‘course not, love,” he reassured her, one of his hands coming to her shoulder. “All I’m saying is there’s got to be something more interesting for us to use our talent for than tapping into security cameras to catch the 1% with their pants around their ankles.” 

Idelle opened her mouth to protest, but aborted with a sigh. He certainly had a point.

As they stared at each other, Augustus’ obnoxious ringtone blared inside his pocket and gave them both a start. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the caller ID. 

“It’s Jack,” he said. 

“Well, are you going to answer it?” she asked, and he nodded, turning around as he answered the call. 

Idelle set about installing the camera as her husband caught up with his friend. She was just about done when he hung up and jogged back to where she worked. 

“You won’t believe what just happened,” he said, beaming at her.

“What?” she asked, his smile infectious. 

“Jack’s got a job for us.”

 

Sunlight filtered in through closed blinds, gently rousing Anne from sleep. She felt a weight on her chest, and when she opened her eyes she saw a familiar head of dark brown curls. The warm press of Max’s body against hers was a comfort she never thought she’d have, but now, almost a year into their relationship, Anne didn’t know how she’d lived so long without it. 

Max made a noise of contentment when Anne carded her fingers through her mess of curls. After a few moments, she shifted closer, eyes still closed as she nuzzled Anne’s neck, placing sleepy kisses against her skin. 

Just as Anne contemplated rolling Max over and waking her to kiss her properly, a noise from across the hotel bedroom startled her. She shot up in bed, dislodging Max from her place against her chest, and reflexively grasped for the gun she kept in the nightstand, but did not find it. 

“Ah, good, you’re awake,” said Jack, lounging across the chaise with his phone in front of his face. When his gaze turned up at her, he was giving her a look and reached to the floor where he’d moved her firearm, lifting it so she could see. “Really, darling, I don’t think the gun is entirely necessary while you’re on holiday,” he said, and her heart rate started returning to normal as she flopped back onto the mattress. 

“Fuck’s sake, Jack,” she said and looked to Max, who was now awake and staring at Jack with annoyance. “Weren’t you in Amsterdam?” 

“I was, yes, though that was before the team of bumbling idiots I was working with decided to royally fuck us all,” said Jack, clearly still aggravated by their incompetence. “Flint and Charles came just in time to whisk me away from the custody of the _politie_.” 

“Flint?” asked Max as she sat up, pulling the bed sheet over her breasts. 

Anne smiled as she reached for the long sleep shirt, one of Jack’s actually, that she’d discarded the night before. “They blew up a mailbox didn’t they,” she said. 

Jack nodded, “Quite a few Dutch citizens will be missing their post, but I’d say it’s a rather small price to pay for freedom.” 

There was a knock at the door, and Jack rose to answer it as Anne and Max moved to dress. Max tied a gold silk bathrobe tight at her waist, and Anne tried not to be distracted by how wonderfully it complimented her skin and hair. Her curls were not as neat as they had been the night before, and her eyeliner was smudged black around her eyes, but somehow she managed to pull it off flawlessly. When Max caught Anne staring, she smiled and winked and Anne couldn’t help but smile back. 

“I took the liberty of ordering room service, I hope you don’t mind,” said Jack, as he pushed the cart inside. It had a large platter with a silver domed cover in the center, an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne, a pitcher of fresh squeezed orange juice, and three champagne flutes. 

Jack rolled the cart out of the room to the rather large balcony outside where a round table and three chairs were already waiting. He transferred the contents of the cart to the table while Max took a seat and started mixing the mimosas. When Jack rolled the now empty cart into the room so they wouldn’t be cramped, Anne stopped him at the door on his way back out. 

“Hey,” she said, fingers spread out against his belly. He angled his body toward her and smiled softly, bringing his hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I missed you,” said Anne. It had been weeks, nearly a month, since she’d seen him. As much as she loved Max, she also loved Jack, and being apart from him always made her feel like a part of her was missing. 

Jack leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I missed you too,” he said, and Anne reached up to kiss him, on the mouth this time. It was short and sweet, and when it was over, Anne wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest for a moment. She felt Jack’s lips press against the top of her head, and his arms squeezed her tight.

 

Outside, Max busied herself by filling her plate with French toast and strawberries. She could see the two of them embracing in the doorway, and did not want to intrude on their reunion. She had had Anne all to herself for weeks, in the French Riviera no less, and they deserved some privacy. 

Once, Anne’s persistent closeness with Jack had intimidated Max. She and Jack had had words numerous times, unbeknownst to Anne, about their situation. When she fell in love with Anne, she thought Jack would stand in their way and try to break them up, but now she could see things much more clearly. He had in fact feared the same of her, had felt that his security in his relationship with Anne was threatened by Max. 

After they established that they both loved Anne and weren’t going anywhere, the three of them got on much better. Now, there existed not only respect, but also a kind of friendship between her and Jack. They both knew they occupied very important, but different places in Anne’s heart, and they both loved her too much to begrudge her for that. 

While she waited, she pulled her cell phone out of her robe pocket. She had a message from John, which was something of a relief. Her adopted brother had been reckless since the day they’d met as teenagers in foster care, but lately he’d really taken it to the next level and it was a comfort to know he was, at the very least, still alive. Jack and Anne looked like they’d be another minute, so she listened to the voicemail.

 _“Hi, Max!”_ John’s voice was chipper in her ear.  _“Just calling to let you know I’m not dead. Also, I’m settled in quite nicely in London now. You wouldn’t believe the things that just fall out of people’s pockets on their way to work, I mean they really should be more careful. Anyway, I expect you’re off with Anne now, so I won’t keep you. Tell her I say hello. Bye!"_  

Max sighed. John had a sickness when it came to opportunities, he really did. You know that part of you inside your head that tells you when to quit when you’re ahead? He didn’t have that. It’s why he had to flee Bristol in order to avoid paying back the £4.6 million he owed some gangster. Max wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to accrue that kind of debt, but she supposed it didn’t really matter. It was how he would pay it that was the real question. He couldn’t hide forever. 

She took a sip of her mimosa, the bubbles tickling her tongue on its way down. Jack and Anne came outside then, and the three of them started eating.

“So what was it Flint wanted with you?” asked Max, between bites of her food.

“Pardon?” asked Jack.

“You said he and Vane rescued you from the police, I imagine they had a reason for seeking you out in the first place, no?” she elaborated.

“Ah, yes, that is part of why I’m here actually,” Jack started, and wiped his mouth with his napkin before continuing. “Flint is in need of a very large crew in order to obtain a very large prize. Lord Hamilton’s family collection of jewels at the Rogers Museum, to be exact.”

“Fucking hell, Jack,” said Anne, eyes wide. “It’ll be crawling with security, we’ll never get close.”

“Under normal circumstances I would agree with you, darling, but with the crew he’s assembling I think we could pull it off. Just think about it, Anne. Not only will we be rolling in money, we’ll also have pulled off one of the greatest heists in the business. Our names will be on the lips of anyone who’s anyone in our world,” Jack said, sounding wistful. 

Max couldn’t speak for Anne, but the prospect of that much money was certainly appealing to her. It was no secret that Max had expensive taste.

"In any case, I’ve put you and I down as a yes, I hope you don’t mind,” said Jack, sounding much more frank now.

“Okay,” Anne said, looking thoughtful. “But if things go south, I’m blowing something up and we’re getting the hell out.” 

“I’d expect nothing less,” said Jack, before he turned to Max. “And what about you, Max? Are you interested? I do hope so, we’re in desperate need of a grease man. Or, rather, in this case I suppose the term "grease woman" would be more appropriate.”

Max thought for a moment. Something had occurred to her as Jack spoke, something that could solve her brother’s money troubles, maybe for good. “How desperate?” she asked.

“Beg pardon?” Jack’s head cocked to the side.

“How desperate are you for my help?” she repeated.

“Max, what are you on about?” Anne asked.

“Yes, what _are_ you on about?” Jack echoed.

“I’ll do the job with you,” Max started, “ _if_ you allow me one condition.”

“And what condition would that be?” Jack asked.

“There’s someone else I want on our crew.”

“Who?”

“His name is John Silver, and he happens to be a very good thief."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I have to say, writing Jack was really fun. I hope I did him justice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Life has kind of been kicking my ass lately. 
> 
> I hope the length of this update makes up for it though, and I hope you enjoy it!

The Spanish sun beat down on Charles as he scanned the beach in front of him. Hundreds of people were lounging in the sand with their brightly colored umbrellas, and there was a group of children shrieking as they raced to the clear water’s edge. Was he not here on business, Charles might’ve been inclined to take a swim himself. 

He kicked his flip-flops off and picked them up before he walked further toward the water, stopping where the people were lined up in their beach chairs to face the waves. His eyes flitted over the umbrellas again, searching.  _There he is_ , thought Charles, as he saw the familiar black umbrella peeking above the rest about fifty yards to his right.  

As Charles drew nearer to the umbrella, he saw the custom design emblazoned on the thin fabric: a skeleton holding an hourglass and a spear of some sort that was aimed at a bleeding heart. Charles always thought that was unnecessary and maybe even a little tacky, but Edward always had been a bit theatrical. 

Even though he had given no advanced notice of his arrival, Charles was not surprised to find his old friend Edward Teach smoking a cigar in the shade with an empty chair beside him. He was a large man, strapped with muscle despite the fact that he’d been retired for years. His thick black beard brushed his chest as he reclined back in his seat, sweeping his arm toward the empty chair. 

“Are you going to just stand there and stare, or are you going to join me?” Teach asked, expectantly. 

“Actually,” Charles started as he ducked under the umbrella and lowered himself into the chair. “It’s you who will be joining me.” Teach offered him a cigar that was already cut, which he took gratefully. Charles took the matchbox that was resting on Teach’s armrest and lit the cigar between his teeth. 

“Is that so?” mused Teach, a brightness in his eyes that Charles had grown accustomed to. That look was only ever directed at him, and Charles knew that it was because, just as the older man had become something of a father figure to him, Teach had always seen him as a son. 

Charles had known Teach since he was a sixteen year old kid, scrambling to support his alcoholic mother who was too sick to work more often than not. Charles ending up working off the books for his landlord Albinus, who was a drug dealer and a mean son of a bitch. About five other boys worked for him too, running drugs to his clients. That was how he’d met Teach. He wasn’t a client, but more of an “interested third party.” Charles thought he was a cop at first, which was hilarious now, but, when he realized he wasn’t, Charles saw an opportunity to get out from under Albinus.

When Teach asked him about Albinus’ business, Charles told him everything and just like that the tyrant was in jail a week later, brought up on drug and child abuse charges a mile long. Teach was no cop, but he had connections. Charles wouldn’t find out until later, but Teach had noticed him a short while before they’d officially met when Charles had talked his way out of a sticky situation with a police officer and a gram of heroin in his backpack. He supposed the older man saw something of himself in Charles; saw his wasted potential and wanted to show him how good he could really be. 

Under Teach’s guidance, Charles had taken to thieving remarkably well; well enough to get his mother the help she needed and buy himself a life free from the poverty he’d been born in. It wasn’t long before he’d met Jack and Anne, and a few years after that Teach started to take him to meetings with Richard Guthrie. When you got down to it, Charles owed this man everything. 

“Once you hear the score we have in mind, I wager you’ll want in. Either for the money or the challenge, it’s hard to say,” said Charles. 

“I take it by ‘we’ you mean James Flint,” said Teach, and it hardly surprised Charles that he’d been keeping tabs on the man. Charles nodded. “Alright. Tell me what you have in mind.”

By the time Charles ended his pitch, Teach was grinning. 

“What?” Charles asked.

“You’re absolutely mad,” said Teach, though there was so small amount of affection in his voice.

“I learned from the best,” said Charles, and Teach barked a laugh.

“That’s true enough,” Teach agreed. “Alright. I’ll join you on this fool’s errand of yours, if only to see how you’ll find a way out of it unscathed.”

Charles smiled, but otherwise offered no remark. They sat together then in companionable silence, until Teach broke it.

“This job,” he started. “Does it require us to leave Spain tonight?”

“No, we’re not expected in London for another two days,” Charles said. “Though that does remind me that there is a part of this you will not care to hear.”

“And what would that be?”

“Eleanor Guthrie is financing us. We’ll need to work with her in order to make this job work."

“I gathered as much, Charles,” said Teach, entirely unfazed by the revelation. 

“And you aren’t angry?” Charles knew that Teach had forgiven him for betraying him eight years ago when Eleanor asked, but he always thought he would still harbor resentment for Eleanor. 

“Charles, I made peace with your decision to side with her over me in that matter years ago. You loved her, and it is no stranger to me the foolish things men do for love. Are mine, hers, and your goals the same in this situation?”

“Of course.”

“Then I have nothing to fear from Ms. Guthrie, and neither do you,” said Teach pointedly. So Teach did know she’d betrayed him as well. “Now, back to the reason I asked in the first place. If you have no plans for dinner you should come back to my villa. I don’t believe you’ve met my wife, Mary, but she’s an excellent cook."

 

Flint was driving from the airport to Northamptonshire when his mobile rang. A cursory glance at the small screen told him it was Jack. Flint reached for his Bluetooth and connected the call. 

“Any update?” he asked, in lieu of a greeting. 

 _“Yes, though you might not like what I have to say,”_ said Jack. Flint grit his teeth. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

_“Anne, myself, and the Featherstones are all on board, but Max has a condition before she agrees.”  
_

“A  _condition?_ ”

 _“Yes, she wants us to bring on a man named John Silver.”_  

Flint rolled his eyes. He’d heard the name before. “That’s her brother.” 

 _“How did you know?”_  

“I’ve met their father, Henry Avery. From what I’ve heard, Silver’s good, but he’s not exactly what we’re looking for.” 

 _“She said she won’t do the job without him. What do you want me to tell her?”_  

Flint was quiet a moment, thinking it through. He supposed another set of eyes couldn’t hurt if it meant they could get Max in on this. “Tell her we have a deal if she lets me bring him in myself,” Flint said. He wanted to see Silver in action before he made his final decision. 

 _“Max, he says yes, but he wants to be the one to bring him in,”_  said Jack, and the line was quiet for a beat before he spoke again.  _“We have a deal.”_

“Where can I find him?” 

 _“Hold on,”_  Jack said, and there was another moment of silence. When a voice returned, it was feminine and accented.  _“He’s in London. I don’t know exactly where he is, but I know where he’ll likely be.”_  

“And where is that?” 

 _“He’s picking pockets as people go to work in the morning, likely on public transport. My guess is he would be on any line that goes into Canary Wharf. They have deeper pockets there.”_  

“Okay. I need Featherstone to check the CCTV footage for him. If he’s using a particular line, I need to know what it is. I’ll also need a photo so I know who I’m looking for.”

 _“Of course. I’ll send you one right away.”_  

“Thank you, I’ll handle it in the morning,” he said and hung up.

A moment later, his mobile buzzed. He had to wait until he was stuck in traffic to take a look, and when he did he couldn’t help but curse to himself. The picture of John Silver had come through, and the only way Flint could think to describe him was “distractingly attractive.” His curls were gorgeous, and,  _God_ , Flint had always had a weakness for blue eyes. 

It was only when a loud honk startled him that he realized he’d lost himself for a moment staring at this man and completely forgotten he was driving.  _Great_ , Flint thought. He needed to pull himself together or this job was going to get more complicated than it already was.

 

In Northamptonshire, Flint expected to find two new additions to their crew: a driver named Ben Gunn and a mechanic named Billy Bones. 

Ben Gunn was the fastest wheelman Flint had ever worked with; the man could turn a Mack truck on a dime if he had to. He’d had a promising racing career until he’d suffered an injury that prevented legitimate races from allowing him to participate. The way Ben had seen it, he was left with two options: he could retire and begin a new career as a racing coach, or he could enter the world of criminals, where no one would give a shit about what his doctor said, and drive the getaway car. He chose both. Coaching gave him a legitimate income, while driving gave him that rush he’d craved from his racing days. 

It was working with different crews that introduced him to his husband, Billy, who was a truly gifted mechanic. Billy was probably the best in the business, but he was much more than that to Flint. 

Billy’s actual surname was not in fact ‘Bones’; it was Gates, a name he shared with his adopted father, Hal. Flint met Mr. Gates going on twelve years ago now. They used to work together often, and Flint had once considered him a good friend. That ended, though, about a year before his arrest, when Mr. Gates had confronted Flint about the destructive path he’d been on since Thomas passed. In his anger and grief, Flint had lashed out and struck a blow too low for Mr. Gates to just brush under the rug.  

When Mr. Gates stormed out of Flint’s hotel room that night, it was the last time Flint ever saw him. Their pride drove them further apart, neither one wanting to be the first one to try to approach the other. A little less than two years later, Flint was in prison when he heard Gates had died of a heart attack. Of all of Flint’s regrets, not making amends with Gates was one of the ones that cut the deepest. 

Flint parked out front of the racetrack they worked at about half an hour before closing time. He got out of his rental car and headed toward the door of the main building. The receptionist directed him through a set of hallways that would lead him to where Ben would be waiting for Billy. 

He found Ben seated in a comfortable-looking chair outside the indoor entrance to the auto garage where Billy did his work, his feet propped up on a crate as he flipped through a magazine. His dark blonde hair fell in waves in his face, and Flint wondered how he was even able to read the paper in front of him. Flint approached him, and when Ben noticed his presence drawing nearer he looked up, eyebrows raised high once he recognized him.  

“Jesus,” Ben whispered, standing up. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you anytime soon,” he said, louder now. “Last I heard you were locked up. Though, I can see now that’s no longer the case.” 

The corner of Flint’s mouth twitched up into a smile. “Is Billy here? I need to speak with the both of you.” 

“What about?” Ben’s head cocked to the side. 

“Business, among other things,” said Flint. 

“Yeah, just a sec,” said Ben, and he went to the open door, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Babe! Get over here!”  

“Why?!” Billy shouted from somewhere inside. He sounded strained, like he was trying to move something heavy. 

“Will you just come here?!” Ben asked, a touch of exasperation entering his tone.  

“Yeah, just a-“ Billy was in the middle of speaking when a loud crash cut him off.  

“Oh for fucks sake,” Ben muttered to himself, before waving Flint forward. “Just follow me.” 

Flint followed Ben toward the back of the large garage. He had to fight the urge to laugh when he saw Billy crawling out from underneath a pile of boxes. Ben huffed as he got on his knees beside where Billy was still sitting on the floor, rubbing a spot on the side of his head.  

God, Flint remembered when he met Billy. The boy wasn't yet twenty, and there was a fire in his eyes as he tried to convince his father to let him help with their job. Billy had been something of a radical, seduced by notions of the disenfranchised rising up to claim what was owed them by the capitalist society that had beaten them down. He spent the first ten years of his life in a struggling orphanage before he was adopted, so he was all too aware of the kind of cruelty the world had for those less fortunate. He knew Gates and Flint never stole from anyone who didn’t deserve it, who didn’t have a frankly obscene amount of money, and he was itching to become a part of that. Not for personal gain, but to use it to support charities that helped disadvantaged youth. Billy was the closest thing to a Robin Hood-like figure Flint had ever encountered in his line of work, and there was something admirable and refreshing in that. 

Though, even at that tender age, Billy was too tall and broad to be much help with infiltration (Flint could think of many words to describe Billy and “inconspicuous" was not one of them). He was strong though, and skilled with his hands. To keep himself busy while his father was away, he’d started taking old cars apart and found he had quite the knack for it. After that, he’d moved on to other machines, and eventually was a good enough mechanic for Gates to take him on a job. He’d outperformed their wildest expectations, if Flint was honest, and since then he’d taken jobs as they suited him. 

Now, it seemed, Billy and Ben had taken a reprieve from their life of crime in favor of legitimate full-time employment. 

“I thought we talked about this,” chided Ben, as he pulled Billy’s hand away to inspect his head. There appeared to be no damage, so Ben stood and helped Billy stand. “Trying to carry an entire shipment of parts in one trip is never going to end well, no matter how ridiculously impressive your arms are." 

“Taking two trips means admitting defeat,” said Billy, looking mostly serious. He hadn’t even taken his eyes off Ben since he got off the ground; Flint stood a few feet away entirely ignored. “And besides, I wanted to save time." 

"You’re not the only person working in this garage, you know. You could ask for help,” said Ben, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Billy was about to retort, but Flint really didn’t have time for this. He cleared his throat to draw their attention. When Billy noticed him, his mouth dropped slightly open. 

“Billy,” said Flint cordially. Billy’s mouth closed again as he swallowed, brow drawn in confusion. 

“Flint,” replied Billy. 

“It’s good to see you,” he said. 

"Right,” said Billy, eyes wary. He looked to Ben, who shrugged. “Is there something you need?” 

“There’s a lot we ought to discuss, I think,” said Flint, and after a tense moment Billy nodded and led the three of them to an empty office. 

The office was fairly organized, save for the messy pile of paperwork on the desk. The lighting was dim, the only source of light coming from a tall lamp against the wall. It gave the room an almost conspiratorial air that was fitting for the conversation they were all about to have. 

Billy walked to the far side of the desk, dragging one of the chairs on the near side with him as he went. Ben followed him and sat down in it. Flint took his seat opposite them, crossing his leg at his knee to keep from looking as tense as he felt. 

“How have you been?” asked Flint, to break the ice. 

“Fine,” Billy said curtly. “Why are you here?” he continued, clearly suspicious. Flint sighed at that, though he supposed he deserved this kind of welcome. He still had no idea what exactly Gates had told Billy about their falling out. For all he knew, Gates had spent his last year on Earth cursing his name. 

“Charles Vane and I are planning a museum job that requires a large crew, and we are in need of a driver and a mechanic. I can think of no better men than the two of you, so I thought I would come here to see if you would be interested,” said Flint. 

Ben replied “How much is the take?” at the same time Billy said “Why would we work with you?” The couple shared an uncomfortable look with each other, and so Flint decided to take their questions on one at a time. 

“The estimated payout for each crew member is roughly £20 million,” said Flint. Ben whistled a long note and looked at his husband. 

“That’s a lot of money, Billy” said Ben, his excitement palpable. “We could get out of this shithole and go wherever we want. We could buy our own track!” 

“I thought you liked it here,” Billy frowned. Ben reached over and clasped Billy’s hand, angling in his chair to face him. 

“You know I love you so much, and I’m happy with anything as long as I’m with you, but let’s face it. This place sucks. You could have your own garage where you could work on what you want to work on instead of what someone else tells you,” he said. “Let’s do the job. It’ll be easy money.” 

“Alright, but he still hasn’t answered my question,” Billy said, gesturing to Flint. “I know something happened with him and my dad and I want to know what it was. If he betrayed him in any way-“ 

“I didn’t betray your father,” Flint interrupted. Billy looked back at him, his arms crossed over his chest. Flint sighed, and mentally prepared himself to tell Billy what happened. “I was… going through some things. Gates didn’t like how reckless I was being, he told me I needed help. I refused, and we got into an argument. We said some terrible things to each other, things you can’t just let go after a few days. It took going to prison for me to realize how right he was. By then, it was too late. 

“If you don’t want to take this job because you don’t want to work with me or you’re not interested in the money or the risk, that’s fine, but don’t you think for a moment that I don’t profoundly regret that I hadn’t listened to your father. Not reconciling with him was one of the worst mistakes of my entire life,” Flint’s voice was thick with emotion by the end of his tirade, and he fought to swallow it down. Billy stared at him for a moment, looked to Ben, and then looked back to him before he responded. 

“Okay,” Billy said simply. 

“Okay?” Flint asked.

“Okay,” Billy repeated, and then continued, “We’re in.”

 

It was late by the time Flint found himself back in Miranda’s house. She was on the phone when he came in, but she was able to scribble “Chinese takeaway in fridge” on a post-it note before she swept out of the room to continue her conversation. Flint hadn’t even realized he was hungry, but his stomach growled just the same.

While he waited for his meal to reheat, Flint brought Miranda’s laptop to the kitchen table. He opened it and logged onto the secure email account Idelle had set him up with a few hours previous. There was only one message in his inbox. It had no subject, but Flint knew what it would contain. 

Without clicking on the message, he went to the fridge to grab a beer and poured it into a commemorative pint glass he had gotten as a favor at a charity event Thomas had taken him to.  

Flint settled at the table with his food and his pint just as Miranda came back into the room. He opened a new tab to BBC News on the laptop before he took a bite, just in case she took a peek over his shoulder. Under normal circumstances, he would be more transparent about his criminal activity, but considering he’d just been released from prison and was planning to break into Miranda’s place of employment, he thought it necessary for the moment to keep it quiet. 

“Who was that on the phone?” Flint asked. It was late, after all.

“Woodes,” said Miranda, and she sounded so tired. 

“Does he usually call at this hour?"

“No, never,” she said. “It’s this damned exhibition he has me working on. He wants me to meet with Alfred again to go over the proposed layout. Alfred’s being very difficult about what can be displayed with what, and the task of dealing with him has been, of course, delegated to me.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Flint. “That he’s being difficult, I mean.”

“Yes, it is rather true to form, is it not?” Miranda sighed. “So how have you been the last couple of days? I haven’t seen you much."

Flint considered that for a moment. “Good,” he said. “I met up with Charles and Jack the other day and ended up staying for a while.”

“Oh, that must’ve been nice,” she said.

Flint nodded, and continued to eat. 

They chatted for a few more minutes before Miranda went up to bed. When she was gone, Flint finally opened the email. It had another picture of Silver, taken from CCTV footage as he left an apartment. The image was grainy, but both Silver and the building’s facade were clearly identifiable. Below the picture was a Brixton address and an approximation of what time Silver would likely be leaving in the morning.

Flint finished his beer and got ready for bed, but not before he cleared the history on the laptop. One could never be too careful.

 

The next morning, around 6am, Flint was sitting inside a Starbucks across the street from the address Idelle had given him, sipping at a Red Eye. Usually, Flint preferred tea, but he’d only gotten a few solid hours of sleep and was in desperate need of a pick-me-up. If Max was right, Silver would be leaving his apartment any minute to catch the northbound Victoria line. 

It was 6:15am when the door to the flat opened. Silver walked out, wearing a black suit with a white button-down and a solid blue tie. His unruly curls were pulled back at the nape of his neck and he wore a pair of sunglasses. He carried a thicker coat over his arm, which Flint was sure would factor somehow into his pickpocketing. 

Flint considered Silver's appearance for a moment. The suit was nice, but nothing too memorable. Judging by the picture he’d seen, Silver’s curls were hard to ignore or forget, so it was a smart move on his part to pull them back into a ponytail. The sunglasses were a nice touch as well as they would help make him harder to identify if it came to that. Silver had obviously put thought into how to go undetected through his work, which was promising.

Silver glanced left and right, as if looking for any sign he was being followed, before heading left down the street toward the Brixton Tube station. Did Silver have a reason to be on edge, or was he just naturally cautious? Flint would have to ask Max.

Flint followed Silver at a distance, making sure to keep up with him just enough to ensure they would be on the same train car. Predictably, the car was packed with people on their way to work, but it wasn’t until they transferred to the southbound Jubilee line headed for Canary Wharf that Silver got to work. 

In the seven stops it took to get from Green Park to Canary Wharf, Flint watched Silver pick as many pockets. One or two of them were a little sloppy, but Flint had to admit he was impressed. He certainly had a lot of potential at the very least. 

Flint followed Silver off the Tube and lifted one of the wallets he’d taken, slipping a card into his pocket with his name, a location, and a short message on it in its place. If Silver was interested, Flint would be waiting. 

 

Silver ducked into a nearby restaurant and headed for the restroom. A stall in the men’s bathroom was not an ideal location to go through his spoils, but it also wasn’t the worst. Closing the latch behind him, Silver hung the large coat on the hook on the door and dug through its many pockets one by one.

He went through each wallet, pocketing the cash and leaving the plastic. It wasn’t enough, would never be enough, but Silver thought he could at the very least now afford food and a place to live for the moment and, really, when you were on the run isn’t that what mattered most?

Though, hang on, was he missing a wallet? Silver counted them again and then rifled through each pocket, looking for his seventh prize. His fingers met paper instead of leather, small and thick like a business card. 

Drawing it out, he saw it had the name _James Flint_ printed on the front of it in bold, black lettering. The name was certainly familiar; Silver remembered his father mentioning the man a few times over the years, though he’d never had the pleasure of meeting him himself. Flipping the card over, he saw his own name scrawled on the back followed by the words “Nice pull. If you want a job, come find me.” A time and address were listed below. 

A mixture of disappointment and excitement flowed through him; Silver was excited about having impressed a man like Flint enough to warrant a job offer, but he wished he’d noticed he was being tailed. He thought he’d been careful this morning, but evidently not careful enough.

Silver pulled out his phone to check the time and see how long it would take to get to the address Flint gave from where he was. If his estimation was correct, he had enough time to go home and change. With a smile on his face, Silver left the restroom, tossing the wallets in the bin on his way out.

 

Around noon, Flint found himself a table at the pub he’d given Silver the location to. The walls were made of dark stained wood, and the floor was a little sticky, but it would serve his purpose. Given the time, there were only a few sad old men at the bar, so he chose a booth by the door. Flint had some time until Silver would show, so he bought a pint to appease the bartender and pulled out Miranda’s copy of Homer's _Odyssey_ that he’d started reading at the various airports he’d been in of late. He’d read it before, of course, but there was something about Robert Fitzgerald’s translation that always brought him back for more. 

Odysseus was recounting his tale to the Phaeacians when the door to the pub opened, the bell attached at the top ringing sharply. Flint glanced up from the pages of his book, and saw the man he was waiting for standing in the middle of the pub, eyes searching the room. A quick look at his watch told Flint the man was fifteen minutes late.

Silver had ditched the coat, tie, and suit jacket he’d had with him earlier, though he still wore the white button-down. It was tucked into his black trousers and the first two buttons were unbuttoned, giving Flint a peek of his collarbone that he tried not to linger on. The man's hair was loose from its tie and fell to his shoulders. Those curls bounced as he turned his head around, looking for Flint.

Flint raised his hand to beckon Silver forth, and the younger man flashed him a smile as he sat down opposite him at the booth. Now that he was closer, Flint could see his eyes, and Max’s picture had done them no justice at all. They were a gorgeous blue unlike Flint had ever seen, but then Silver was talking to him and he had more important things to focus on.

“I take it you’re Flint?” Silver asked, perhaps still a little unsure. Flint nodded.

“I am,” he said, and tossed the wallet he’d lifted from Silver’s pocket on the table. Silver eyed it a moment, and then looked back to Flint without reaching for it.

“Your note said you had a job for me,” said Silver.

“It did,” said Flint, and he knew he was being infuriatingly vague, but there were some things he wanted to know about Silver that he could not exactly ask. He said nothing else as Silver looked at him expectantly.

“Look, if you’re going to waste my time, I have other things I need to be doing,” said Silver, and when he reached for the wallet and made to stand, Flint covered his hand with his own to stop him.

“Relax,” said Flint. Silver’s hand was warm under his for a moment too long before he remembered himself and withdrew it, lacing his fingers in front of him on the table. “You’re impatient,” Flint said. “We’ll have to work on that if you’re going to be joining my crew."

“You haven’t even told me what the job is yet,” said Silver. Flint studied him another moment before he began speaking.

“With the help of a rather large crew, I plan to infiltrate the Rogers Museum and steal roughly £250 million in jewelry. All who contribute stand to gain an equal share of that prize. Are you interested or not?”

“ _Fuck_ yes,” said Silver, eyes bright for a moment, before they turned critical on him. “Though, I have to ask, why do you want _me_ to help you with that?” asked Silver. “Not that it matters, but I’m wondering what a man like you would want with someone like me. I’m good at what I do, but I did not think to count myself among those James Flint would call on in a time of need."

“A time of need?” Flint smiled in spite of himself. “If it’s troubling you that much, your sister brought you to our attention."

“Is Max in on this then?”

“She is, yes.” Realization washed over Silver.

“I was a condition of hers, wasn’t I? She wouldn’t work for you unless I joined you.” Flint didn’t know what the look on Silver’s face meant, so he tried to choose his words carefully.

“You were, but I wouldn’t have offered the job if I didn’t think you had potential,” said Flint. 

“Potential,” Silver said more than asked. 

“Henry Avery taught you well, but this life requires a kind of discipline you seem to have lost. As I said before, you’re impatient and that could be a problem. Luckily for you, we have time before the heist goes into effect; weeks, possibly months to prepare. With some training, you’ll be more than ready for what we need of you,” said Flint.

“Will you be doing the training?” asked Silver, and now there was something else in his eyes that Flint couldn’t identify.

For some reason, Flint found himself saying “If you like,” even though he had already decided he would be the one.

“That works for me,” Silver smiled at him, and Flint rolled his eyes. 

“Go to this address tomorrow night at 8pm. Our sponsor is hosting a small party for the crew to meet and for us to go over the preliminary plan,” said Flint as he stood up from the table, passing Silver a slip of paper and collecting his book as he did. He gave Silver a cursory look and said, “Don’t be late.” 

Flint didn’t wait for an answer before he left the pub.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back!!! Sorry for the long wait!!! Some of you already know this, but I just finished a 10 week intensive Latin course so I had no time to write for a while. Anyway, here’s the next chapter!

Silver sat in the booth for a moment, staring at the door Flint walked out of long after he’d gone. He couldn’t stop his smile from widening as he thought of this unbelievable turn of events. 

When Silver had woke up that morning, a slow, creeping dread had filled him as it had these past few weeks on the run. He hadn’t wanted to worry Max, but he knew his luck would only get him so far, and the man he’d crossed was not of the forgiving sort. Now it seemed that his money troubles would be over forever, provided they didn’t all get caught and end up in prison. Silver shook that thought from his mind; he was nothing if not an optimist and he had a good feeling about this job.   

Suddenly, his phone buzzed and his trance was broken. Max’s name on the caller ID barely registered in John’s mind before he answered the call.

“I could kiss you right now,” said John, forgoing a greeting altogether. He stood up from the table and left the pub. The sun was making a rare appearance outside, and it only brightened his mood further.

_“So he found you?”_ asked Max, and he could hear her smile.

“Yes, and have I ever mentioned how much I love you? Because I do, very much. Especially right now. You have no idea how grateful I am, I mean you very well may have saved my life just now.”

_“I love you too, mon cher. And it was the least I could do for my favorite brother when he is in need.”_

“I’m your only brother.”

_“Details,”_ she said, and he could just picture her dismissive wave. 

“I’m supposed to go to a party tomorrow night, you’ll be there won’t you?”

_“Oui."_

“Do you know where it is?"

_"It’s at Eleanor’s.”_  Well, _shit_.

“Will you be okay, going back there?” asked John. He didn’t know all the dirty details, but he knew their breakup was on the messier side of things. He vividly remembered Max crying for days when Eleanor ended it, and he’d been there with ice cream and expensive wine to console her. He knew things were better between them now, but he was worried she might feel strange going back to that penthouse.

_“Of course. What’s past is past,”_ said Max, firmly. _"Eleanor and I can reconcile our differences, I am sure. Besides, I have Anne now."_  

“Alright,” said Silver, though he was less than convinced. He paused for a moment and decided to change the subject, knowing Max would get annoyed if he challenged her. “So how long have you known Flint?”

_“Eleanor introduced us about six years ago, I think, when she was still with Charles. We worked together twice. Why do you ask?”_

“I was just wondering why, after all the things I’ve heard about him in passing, no one said anything about how fucking hot he is.” Max snorted on the other end of the line. “I mean, I was entirely unprepared for that.”

_“I don’t know what to tell you,”_ said Max, sounding amused _. “It’s not something I have ever given thought."_

Silver couldn’t help but ask, “Is he single?"

_“John! You can’t be serious,”_ Max scolded.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” John said, then added a “…Mostly,” to the end. Max sighed at that, and after assuring her that he would not jeopardize his standing with Flint’s crew by asking Flint on a date, he said goodbye and hung up. He pulled out the card Flint gave him with Eleanor’s address and considered it for a moment before tucking it back in his pocket and heading back toward the Tube. 

 

At 7pm the next night, Silver was putting the finishing touches on his outfit. He’d bought it just for the occasion: a well-tailored dark blue suit with a lighter blue button-down that had dark flowers printed on it. The ensemble had cost him a pretty penny, but as he looked at himself in the mirror he deemed it worth the expense. Besides, if the job worked out, he would be able to afford a hell of a lot more, and if it didn’t... well, he’d probably be too dead to care. 

Once he was ready, he was out the door. Normally, Silver liked to arrive fashionably late to any party he was invited to, but something told him that would be frowned upon at this particular event.

Eleanor’s building was intimidating to say the least. It stood so tall Silver could not hope to count the floors, and expressionless business men carrying briefcases passed through its doors and walked by on the street. He heard one man arguing with his wife about the type of caviar she wanted at brunch as he power walked by. 

No matter how many years he’d lived under Avery’s wing at that mansion of his, he would never quite shake the feeling that he didn’t belong in places like this. He’d bounced between foster homes after his parents died when he was three, so luxurious was not a word he would use to describe his formative years. Still, Dear Old Dad had taught him a thing or two about blending in, so Silver straightened up and walked into the building like he owned it. 

He gave his name to the woman at the desk, and she signed him in and sent him up. He just got to the elevator when he heard a shout. 

“John! Wait, hold the door!” Max yelled, hurrying along with Anne and Jack in tow. Silver blocked the door with his arm and let them on. 

Max was on him as the doors were closing, pulling him into a tight hug that he returned gladly. It had been about six months since he’d last seen her, if his maths were right. She kissed both of his cheeks before she let him go. 

“It’s good to finally see you,” he said as he took her in. Her usually tan skin had taken on a darker glow, no doubt from her time in the sun. “I see France has treated you well.”

Max took the compliment gracefully, and Silver introduced himself to Jack. He’d never met the man before, but Max had told him stories. Anne simply nodded in his general direction, and honestly that was the warmest greeting he’d ever gotten from her, so he counted that as a win. 

They were stopped at the door by an Irish fellow who checked their identification and then let them pass. Inside, Eleanor Guthrie’s penthouse was gorgeous, in a kind of minimalist power executive kind of way. There was some pretentious art on the walls and muted color schemes, and the clock mounted on the wall had no numbers on it. Silver suspected it was a deliberate choice; as he moved deeper into the penthouse he saw that the living room and bar area had much more personality. 

Hues of gold, blue, and brown dominated the décor in a way that was inviting and tasteful. Music was playing, only just loud enough to provide some background noise without hindering conversation. There was a fully stocked bar on one side of the room, and an impressive spread of food at the other, which Silver had no doubt was absurdly expensive. 

“Jack!” shouted a man with a thick brown beard that was beginning to grey. He came over, a wide smile on his face as he pulled Jack into a tight hug. Jack clapped him on the back and returned his smile. 

“It’s good to see you again, mate,” said Jack, and then looked around. “And where is your darling wife? I can’t imagine she’d miss this.”

“You’re right about that,” came a voice behind them. A dark-haired woman with a birthmark on her cheek came around to meet them, a glass filled with amber liquid in each hand. She kissed Max on the cheek and passed one glass to the bearded man. She looked Silver up and down and took a long pull from her glass. “I see you’ve made it here alright."

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” asked Silver, looking to Max for clarification. 

“No,” said the woman. “I know a bit about you though. You’re a slippery one, we had to do some proper digging to find you."

“John, this is my friend Idelle and her husband, Mr. Featherstone,” said Max. “They helped Flint find you so we could get you here."

“Please, love, you can call me Augustus, we’re all friends here,” the man told Max. He reached out his free hand to shake Silver’s. “Though, if you prefer, ‘Featherstone' suits me just as well.”

“Featherstone,” Silver repeated, and flashed one of his brilliant smiles. “You can call me Silver."

“Nice to meet you then, Silver,” said Featherstone. He turned to Jack. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit, we need a quick word with Vane.” Jack nodded, and Featherstone and Idelle went off to find him. Jack headed off to the bar for drinks with Anne following close behind. Silver caught a glimpse of Flint at a barstool, speaking with a surly man with a black beard and Charles Vane.

“Have you mentioned Idelle before? She sounds familiar,” wondered Silver, now that he and Max were relatively alone. 

“We used to run a blackmailing scheme together before I met Eleanor, I’m sure I told you about it,” she said, and then Silver nodded in remembrance. 

The pair of them met when Max was conning rich men out of their money by seducing them. At the time, Idelle was being paid by a jealous wife to investigate a man, who turned out to be Max’s mark, for proof of an affair that she could use during their divorce. Max confronted Idelle when her mark  disappeared, leaving her without the money she’d been hoping for. The two hit it off, and decided to go into business together as independent contractors of sorts. 

Max was the bait, and Idelle was the hook. When they were given a mark, Max would use her powers of seduction that came from years of sex work to lure the man (or woman, though it was overwhelmingly men who they were hired for) into a compromising situation that Idelle would then capture them in to blackmail them. It worked well for a while, and, if Silver remembered right, Idelle would sometimes even sell clean passports to the men they’d blackmailed for exorbitant prices so they could disappear. She would fuck them twice without them even knowing she was involved. 

Like all things, though, it came to an end. Max got tired of seducing men, and in some strange turn of events she ended up meeting Eleanor Guthrie. Despite what he might think of her now, Silver knew Eleanor used her influence to get Max better gigs, and he supposed there was something to be said in that.

Sooner than he’d expected Anne and Jack were back with drinks. Silver took his gladly and set about introducing himself to the people he did not yet know. He thought he’d start with the blonde man piling his plate with cheese cubes.  

 

Charles sat at the bar with Teach and Flint, trying not to make it obvious that he couldn’t take his eyes off Eleanor. She looked beautiful tonight. Her golden hair was done up in an intricate plait, and her black dress was nothing revealing or flashy, but Charles was having a hard time focusing on anything else. Her lips were painted red, and Charles had a sudden memory of the night she’d left lipstick stains on the collar of his shirt while they were at a charity ball her family had been invited to. No amount of club soda could’ve helped them then, and Richard had turned about three shades of purple when he saw it.

Eleanor was talking to Idelle when her phone went off. She picked it up and hurried out of the room, presumably to her office. Charles look a sip of his drink while he debated whether or not to follow her. _Fuck it_ , he thought.

He said nothing as he got up from the bar, not sparing his friends a second glance. His drink sat abandoned on the counter as he weaved through the crowd of people until he found her. She was leaning against her desk in her office, eyes cast downward as she spoke into the phone. 

“No, you will have it for me by Monday as was our original agreement. Goodnight,” she said, hanging up. She sighed, rubbing the space between her eyes. Charles took a step inside the room and knocked twice on the door frame. Eleanor looked up, startled, and then relaxed again. 

“What do you want?” she asked, sounding tired.

“What was that about?” he asked, avoiding the question. 

“None of your fucking business,” she said, almost automatically. Charles’ eyebrows shot up a bit, and she sighed, “Sorry.” He took a moment to savor that; an apology from Eleanor Guthrie was a rare thing.

“Unless I’m mistaken,” Charles started, walking further into the room, “today is a day of celebration. We’re about to begin working on something that will make all of our lives a hell of a lot better than they are now. And yet you’re in here, obviously bothered by something. Will you tell me what it is?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she asserted, and when he didn’t say anything she rolled her eyes and continued, “I’ve been collecting on debts to help fund this operation and one bastard doesn’t have my money. I gave him a week to get it together, but now he wants an extension. He’s just a prick who thinks if he stalls long enough he won’t have to pay me, I know he hasn’t spent what I gave him. As I said, nothing I can’t handle.”

“How do you know he hasn’t spent it?” 

“He wanted to buy a concert venue, but the current owner has been reluctant to sell. Bit of a shame really; for my help in its initial procurement I was to gain 30% of its profits after the debt was settled.” Vane filed that information away for later. Perhaps he would look into the matter himself, see if he could scare the money out of whoever it was if it came to that.  

“Well that’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow. Come on, your guests are waiting,” he said, and turned to leave the room. 

“Why did you follow me?” she said suddenly, and he turned back around to look at her. She still hadn’t moved from her desk.

“What?”

“Was there a reason you came in here after me, or were you just wandering my penthouse?”

“You practically bolted out of the room when you got that phone call. I just wanted to see if you were alright.”

“You don’t have to do that,” said Eleanor, more than a little annoyed. 

“Do what?” 

“Act like you’re genuinely concerned about my state of being. You’re here to rob a museum, not-" Charles laughed at that. It was a short, undignified sound that had Eleanor blinking at him, “What?" 

“Do you think I’m running a fucking con on you? Christ, Eleanor. You should know me better than that,” he said, and left the room, not bothering to wait for her reply. When he rejoined the party, he ordered a drink, ignored the look he was getting from Teach, and found Jack, Featherstone, and Idelle at a couch across the room. 

 

Silver had never really been of the joining sort, which is why it should come as no surprise that he spent a good amount of time on the balcony rather than inside mingling with the other guests. He’d made his rounds, to be sure, but once he’d introduced himself and had some light conversation, he disappeared outside.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d also had an odd conversation with Flint at the bar, after Vane had wandered off after Eleanor. By that point Silver, Max, and Anne had already finished their first drinks and he offered to go to the bar to get another round. Flint being there was obviously just a coincidence and not at all the reason he volunteered. Obviously.  

Silver sat at the stool next to Flint and ordered drinks for the three of them; a straight whisky for Anne, and two cosmopolitans for himself and Max (because goddamn it if they’re going to drink alcohol they want to enjoy it). 

“Hello,” smiled Silver. 

“I see you were able to make it on time,” said Flint. 

“In my defense, I needed to run home first, and, really, when you put a cryptic note in someone's pocket should you expect them to be punctual? The next time you need to summon me somewhere I do hope you’ll call instead.”

“I think that can be arranged,” said Flint, and if he was anyone else Silver might wonder if he was flirting with him. 

“Oh good. I don’t know how I’d react to waking up with a card on my pillow whenever you’re ready to start training,” Silver mused. Flint just furrowed his brow slightly at him, and Silver blazed through the awkwardness of having suggested Flint would break into his apartment while he was sleeping by continuing, “By the way, when are we going to begin the training you mentioned?”

“In a few days,” said Flint, draining the last of what Silver thought was rum from his glass. Flint stood up and before he left he said, “I’ll give you a call."

Silver was pondering this exchange on the balcony when Eleanor walked up beside him and set her elbows casually on the ledge. She was looking at him, and he shifted under her gaze.  

“You’re Max’s brother.”

“You’re Eleanor Guthrie,” Silver responded, while they were stating facts and all. 

“Enjoying the view?” she asked, gesturing out at the glittering city. He’d been lost in his own head, but, yes, he supposed it was a beautiful view.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” he said.

“Mm,” she hummed in mock thoughtfulness. "Get the fuck inside.”

“Right,” said Silver, and he was inside before he knew it. Vane was standing in the center of the room and everyone had quieted down to listen to him.

“If there is anyone here who is no longer interested in working this job, now is your opportunity to leave,” said Vane. No one moved. “Come on then,” he said. 

Vane lead them into a room with about a dozen chairs surrounding a large rectangular table. A flat screen television was mounted on the wall on the far side of the room. Flint was standing near it, holding what looked like a small remote. Silver took his seat between Max and Idelle somewhere in the middle.

“As many of you may have heard, the Rogers Museum has a state of the art security system in its galleries that is virtually unbeatable. Cameras and sensors that track heat, movement, and pressure cover every display case and point of entry,” as Flint spoke, he clicked the remote and a blue print with highlighted cameras and sensors appeared. “We could set up a loop on the cameras, but there’s no way to manipulate the censors while the power is connected. Movement censors can be fooled, but the only way we can trick the heat censors is by raising the temperature of the room and that would destroy the artwork. What this means is that an assault on the gallery is impossible.” 

“However, if we can get them to move the items from the display area to the vault, we have a chance,” said Vane. “It’s a chamber in the basement of the building. In order to get to it, we need a fingerprint and the voice of someone authorized. Max, we need you running point on that. There are also a few armed guards that patrol the area, but I’m sure Anne can think of a way to take care of them.” 

Silver looked at the redhead and saw her lips quirk upwards into a smirk from under the wide brim of her strange hat.  

“Sure,” she said. “Might need to break into a lab for what I’ll need though, assuming you don’t want no one killed." 

“You’ll have whatever you need,” assured Flint, and then he pointed back at the screen. “Now, the vault itself is very tricky. We’ll need to reconstruct it from plans and work out a way to get in and out without raising an alarm or compromising the art inside. Billy, Ben, are you up to it?” They looked at each other and nodded, so Flint continued. “Moving on, the cameras that cover the entire floor cannot be hacked remotely. Featherstone, we need you to get inside this room here and set us up manually so we can have eyes not just on that floor, but everywhere in the museum."

“We also need to know everything about the people working security,” said Vane. "What are their shift schedules, when do they like to take breaks, do any of them have any weaknesses we might be able to exploit? We also need card access for Featherstone to get into that room. Jack, do you think you could be our man inside?” 

“Of course,” said Jack.

“Now you’re probably wondering how we get the jewels into the vault in the first place,” said Flint. "The only person with enough pull to get the collection stored there is Lord Hamilton himself. This is where you come in, Teach. We need you to go undercover to convince him he should ask Woodes Rogers to move his collection to the vault every night. He’s no doubt been assured that his collection is safe where it is, so you need to get him to doubt that. How is up to you. Idelle can set you up with an airtight identity. Take Silver with you, you might need an extra man on that.”

Silver perked up at the mention of his name. His eyes sought Teach across the table and he shot him a friendly smile, but all he received was a stoic look. Well, he supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything else. He’d heard many things about the infamous Blackbeard, and none of them had to do with an amicable demeanor. 

“The collection goes on display in two months. We have until then to flesh out our plan and have everything ready to go for opening night. Any questions?” Flint asked. No one said anything. “Good. Eleanor has been gracious enough to provide us with accommodations and a safe place to work, the details of which she will provide shortly. It goes without saying that that location must be kept secret. You’re all expected to be there in two days time so we can begin.”

With that, Flint and Vane left the room.

 

Silver watched Flint on the balcony from inside the penthouse as the other guests started filtering out. He had his elbows on the railing, and he looked down at the bustling city below. The rest of the crew were positively giddy over the prospect of money, yet Flint, the man who’d brought them all here in the first place, did not seem to be similarly effected. There was something else in the set of Flint’s shoulders that drew Silver nearer until he’d joined him on the balcony. 

If Flint heard his approach, he gave no sign of it. His gaze remained fixed on the street as Silver stepped closer until he was close enough to touch.

“What do you want?” asked Flint, and Silver had the feeling that Flint knew it was him without even looking.

“May I join you?” Silver asked, even as he stepped closer to press his side against the ledge, facing Flint. The older man turned his head to look at him, but said nothing. Silver took his lack of protest as permission to speak. “There’s something I can’t quite seem to puzzle out, and I’m wondering if you’ll offer anything more on the subject.”

“And what would that be?” asked Flint, clearly just to humor him.

Silver hesitated, and shifted to lean his back against the rail, looking back toward the penthouse. He could see what was left of the crew through the large glass windows as he spoke. “It’s fairly obvious to me why they’re all here. Most of us just want money, a few are in it for the fun of it, Jack cares a bit too much about his legacy to resist the temptation of working a job like this, Billy probably wants to give it all to charity-" 

“What makes you say that?” Flint interrupted. 

“The man has two bracelets from donating to animal conservation programs and another for an orphanage. It wasn’t much of a stretch,” Silver said. "What I can’t seem to figure out is why you’re here. I’m told you were recently released from prison. Why risk your freedom for this?”

“Is money not enough?”

“For a man like you? I’d say it isn't.”

“You’ve said that before,” Flint said, and Silver worried that he’d overstepped. "‘A man like me.’ Do not presume to know me, Silver. You’re perceptive, I’ll give you that, but if you want to continue working this job I’d suggest you turn your attention away from me and focus it on getting those jewels."

“But what if I want to know you?” Silver retorted. 

Flint actually laughed at that, a short huff that surprised Silver. The redheaded man pushed back off the balcony and started to walk away. “Goodnight, Mr. Silver,” was all he said before he turned his back and went inside. 

Silver stood there for a moment, not sure how to take that reaction. It wasn’t until Eleanor told him to get the fuck off her balcony for the second time that night that he made any move to leave. These next two months were going to be interesting, Silver was sure of that much. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this was really exposition-heavy, I tried to throw in some character scenes to balance it out. I hope it was worth the wait!  
> Also, follow me on tumblr if you want! My url is the same as my username here, prouvaireafterdark.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE RETURNED! God, this took forever, I'm sorry, guys. 
> 
> And ok the first part of this chapter is super emo, but would it really be a Black Sails fic is there wasn't some hard-hitting emotional drama? It just felt.. necessary. Hopefully you'll see what I mean. It gets lighter after the first part, though, promise!

_“But what if I want to know you?”_

Those words echoed in Flint’s head as he opened the door to his house. They were absolutely absurd. Why would anyone  _want_  to know him? Most days, he didn’t even want to know himself.  

James headed straight for the liquor cabinet once he’d taken his coat off and was pleased to find an unopened bottle of his favorite rum collecting dust in the back. Unscrewing the cap, James poured himself two fingers into a glass. 

Miranda wasn’t home yet, having been detained at work much later that usual. James was slightly grateful for that. In the brief time he’d been staying there since his release, he had not worked up the courage to go upstairs to where their bedroom was. He didn’t know what state he would be in once he did, but he knew he needed to do it alone. 

James finished his drink and stared at the bottle a moment before deciding to take it with him. If he was going to do this, he’d need as much liquid courage as he could stand. 

The climb to the top of the stairs felt like it took ages, but then at last he was standing in front of their bedroom door. James took a breath to steady himself before he opened it. The room before him was dark, but he dared not turn the light on. There was something about the darkness that made this easier.

Even bathed in shadows as it was, James could tell Miranda had kept the room the same. It had a smooth wood floor and warm beige walls, and red curtains framed the large windows, which let in just enough light to make out the familiar shapes. An enormous bed fit for a king was against the far wall. Thomas himself had picked it out so the three of them could sleep together. How Miranda could stand to sleep in it all alone, James didn’t know. 

Various pieces of antique wood furniture Miranda had picked up were around the room as well. James wondered whether the dresser to the right of their bed still held Thomas’ things. The possibility was both heartbreaking and strangely comforting.

He staggered over to one of the dressers, taking a few long pulls of rum as he went, and set the bottle on its surface. There was a candle and a small box of matches resting on a lace doily in front of him. He lit it carefully and then reached for one of the picture frames behind it. In the light of the candle, he could see a snapshot of his former life. It was a candid photo of himself with Thomas and Miranda at a party. They were dressed to the nines and smiling at each other, Thomas’ hand resting on James’ lower back. James remembered the evening well; it was only three weeks before the accident. 

Thomas looked as he did in James’ memory, but he and Miranda did not. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Miranda smile like that, and his own image was scarcely recognizable. That James in the photograph was thoroughly different from the man he was today. Still a criminal, to be sure, but one blissfully unaware of what was about to happen, of what was about to tear his world utterly apart. 

James sighed heavily as he put the picture back down. He looked through the rest of pictures sitting on the dresser, each one making his heart heavier. Once he’d seen enough, he took another drink from the bottle before he traded it for the candle. 

James brought the candle with him as he crossed the room to the bookshelf, using it to illuminate the spine of each book until he found what he was looking for. His free hand hung in the air for a moment before he made up his mind and pulled a heavy red tome off the shelf.  _Meditations_  by Marcus Aurelius. Flint climbed on the bed and set the book down in front of him on the plushy red duvet. He blew out the candle and left it on nightstand, switching the lamp on instead. The last thing he needed was to set the bedding on fire. 

James flipped open the cover of the book and saw the words Thomas had written to him. _James, my truest love, know no shame, T.H_. An overwhelming sadness hit him, and the tears he’d tried to hold at bay at last came forth. Here, in this room they’d shared, in this bed that no longer smelled of him, James felt the loss of Thomas keenly.

As he wept, he heard the front door open. Miranda was calling his name, but he found himself incapable of answering her. When she finally appeared in the bedroom doorway, the spell over him was broken. 

“Miranda,” he said, his voice thick.

She said nothing, but he knew she understood. She crossed the room and sat on the bed, her back against the headboard. She guided James’ head to her lap and softly pet his hair as he cried, whispering soft words to soothe him. It made him feel not unlike a child, and the small beads on her dress scratched at his cheek, but in that moment nothing would have moved him from that spot. Miranda was the one person he still had in his life who loved him unconditionally, who understood him in a way no one else could, and in this tumultuous sea of despair he found himself in, she was the beacon guiding him toward solid ground. 

They sat like that for a while, until he broke their silence. 

“How can you stand it?” James’ voice was barely above a whisper.

“Hm?” Miranda’s hand paused in his hair. James sat up to look at her. He could see now that she too had tear tracks down her cheeks. 

“Living here, in this house, without him,” he said. “How do you do it?” 

There was nothing accusatory in his tone. He had only managed a week in this house after Thomas passed before he threw himself into his work, flying around the world, pulling every job he could find (and each more dangerous than the last). He knew her love for Thomas was no less than his own, and he was simply in awe of her strength. 

"I almost didn't,” started Miranda, "I thought about leaving. I thought if there wasn’t the constant reminder of him all around me I could move on. But, Thomas and I had known each other since we were in school. He was…” Fresh tears wet her eyes as she struggled to find the words. “He _is_ , a part of me. No amount of space was ever going to change that. And besides, this is my  _home_. Thomas and I built it together; we picked out this furniture, painted these walls. I didn’t  _want_  to leave. And I knew he wouldn't have wanted me to either,” she said, and then gave a short, amused laugh. “You should have seen the way Thomas was with the realtor when we were trying to buy this place, there was another couple who was interested and-“

Miranda and James spent the better part of an hour retelling some of their favorite stories about Thomas. It was good to talk about him again, James thought. For the first time in almost five years, James could remember Thomas and feel something like happiness. He’d once heard a man call Miranda a witch, and in that moment he half-wondered if there was any truth to it, if she had bewitched his pain away for a short while; such was the effect she had on him. 

It occurred to him that if he’d stayed with Miranda instead of running off and getting himself arrested, he could have achieved this feeling a long time ago. The hot spike of shame twisted his belly, and the magic of Miranda was dulled by the sensation. Miranda seemed to have noticed, for she spoke his name as a question.

“I’m sorry,” said James. 

“What for?” Miranda’s brow was drawn in confusion.

“For leaving you,” said James, his head hug low. “I should’ve stayed. He would have wanted that, I see that now.”

“James, please,” Miranda stopped him, and he met her eyes once more. “You did what you needed to do. As did I. It’s okay to have regrets, but don’t torture yourself with guilt over it, okay? I forgive you."

Emotion welled up in his throat, and he swallowed around it, pulling Miranda to his chest. She embraced him fully, one of her hands sweeping back and forth across his back. They sat like that a few moments until Miranda pulled back to look at him.

“I know it’s late, but what do you say we move this to guest room and watch a film?” she asked, wiping a tear from his cheek that James hadn’t noticed had fallen. James managed a small smile and nodded, immeasurably grateful to have this amazing woman in his life. He had taken her for granted before, but he could say with absolute certainty that he would never do that again.

 

Silver’s phone was quiet for a few days after the party. He’d moved into the hotel Eleanor had set them up in, spent some time catching up with Max and getting to know the crew, but had seen hide nor hair of Flint since that night. Silver started to worry he’d overstepped on the balcony and now Flint was avoiding him, but no one else had seen him either.

Then, one morning while Silver was enjoying a rather nice dream that involved rolling around in a large quantity of money, the phone finally did ring.

Silver clumsily felt around for the source of the offensive noise, knocking over his cell phone and the alarm clock, until his fingers closed around the receiver of the hotel’s phone. He rolled over onto his back and brought the device to his ear.

“Hello?” he drawled. 

“ _Your training starts today_ ,” said the voice on the other end. “ _I’ll be there shortly, so be ready_." 

“Flint?” Silver asked. Flint gave no verbal reply, but Silver could swear he could hear his eyes roll. “How did you get this number?” asked Silver, voice still thick with sleep.

“ _Well, as you made clear the other night, breaking into your room and leaving a cryptic card on your pillow was out of the question, so I had to resort to asking the front desk,”_ came Flint’s dry reply. _“Meet me in the lobby in 20 minutes._ ”

The phone clicked as Flint hung up. _Fuck_. Silver scrambled for his mobile to check the time. _6:24am_. Silver groaned as he dragged himself out of bed and into the shower.

It was just passed 7am by the time Silver walked out of the elevator and into the lobby. Flint was frowning at his phone when Silver spotted him sitting in the lounge area. He looked up as Silver approached. 

“You’re late,” groused Flint. 

“If you set unrealistic expectations, you’re bound to be disappointed,” said Silver. Flint, to Silver’s utter astonishment, cracked something like a smile, and Silver wondered if Flint had set the whole thing up just to fuck with him.

“Let’s go,” said Flint, and the two of them headed out the door and into a black car. 

“Where are we headed?” asked Silver.

“You’ll see,” was all Flint said before he started the engine.

 

Rush hour traffic was murder, but eventually Flint pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. It was just the kind of place one would imagine criminal activity would take place; there was even a rusted chain-link fence surrounding the property. It was a little too on-the-nose for Silver’s taste, though probably necessary considering the noise Billy’s power tools made. 

Silver followed Flint inside. There was some heavy machinery and building materials on the far end that Silver suspected Billy had brought in, and two desks with an impressive set-up of computers and other electronics were about thirty feet from where he stood. There was a break area near the entrance, complete with couches, a table with chairs, and a mini-fridge. There was even an electric kettle and a case of bottled water for tea. The entire space was open except for the room walled off on his left, which must have been used by the foreman who worked there before the warehouse was closed down. 

Flint unlocked the door to the office and gestured for Silver to follow him inside. The room was small, with only a desk and two chairs, but the windows made it feel less claustrophobic. Flint took a seat at the far end, and Silver sat opposite him. Flint pulled a yellow notepad and pen from a desk drawer and set them down in front of him. 

“In the field, one of the most unpredictable elements you deal with is people,” said Flint. “No matter how well you plan, someone might end up being somewhere you didn’t count on them being, and you need to be able to think on your feet and regain control of the situation. To work on that, we’re going to try a role-play exercise. I am going to create scenarios for you to respond to and will play the role of anyone you might encounter in that scenario. Your job is to talk yourself out of the situation. Understand?”

“I think so,” said Silver. It sounded easy enough.

 

It wasn’t. Flint was relentless, asking question after question and doing that thing he did where he looked at you until you could do nothing but cower under the weight of his stare. He took notes, too, like some kind of infuriating police psychologist who was trying to talk you into a confession. Maybe this _was_ payback for his questions on the roof. Silver wasn’t sure how long he sat in that room, but Flint had taken on the role of a guard, the owner of the museum, and a civilian and, regardless of his mental acuity, Silver was exhausted.

“Can we take a few?” Silver asked. He needed sustenance, and, also, a fucking break. 

Flint checked his watch, “Billy should be here with lunch any minute.”

Just as he spoke, the door to the warehouse banged open. “Anyone order pizza?” Billy’s voice was muffled through the door, but still recognizable.

“Thank god,” Silver muttered.

 

Across London, Charles Vane was walking into Eleanor’s office. He said nothing as he dropped a small duffel bag on her desk. 

“What’s this?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and looking at him questioningly.

“A peace offering,” he said.

Eleanor stared at him a moment before reaching for the bag. When she unzipped it, she saw bundles of banknotes haphazardly thrown in.

“What the fuck, where did you get this?” she asked, rifling through the notes. “Is this blood?” she held up a stack with specs of red on it.

“That’s... not actually my fault, believe it or not,” said Charles. “Anyway, you shouldn’t have a problem bankrolling the operation now.” He was about to leave when Eleanor stopped him.

“You shit, you fucking went to see Mr. Gallagher, didn’t you? How did you even find him?” Eleanor’s eyes were incredulous.

“Idelle."

“Unbelievable. You’re fucking unbelievable,” Eleanor got out of her seat and rounded her desk to face him more directly. "If I’d wanted your help, I would have fucking asked!"

“Jesus Christ, Eleanor, you needed the money and now you have it, where is the fucking problem?” Charles sighed. He was really getting tired of her getting mad at him whenever he tried to be helpful. The only reason he’d done it in the first place was to show some good faith, make her see he wasn’t pretending to care about her.

“You’ve ruined my relationship with a client and made me look weak!"

“How the fuck have I made you look weak? If anything, I made you look stronger by taking what you said you needed,” he argued. 

“Business is about _diplomacy_ , Charles,” she said. “There’s a process! I asked for my money, he was going to try to buy some time in the hopes that I wouldn’t need it anymore, but eventually he was going to give it to me or face the consequences.”

“I’d say he already did,” said Charles. Eleanor did not appreciate that.

 “You can’t just attack my clients!” she seethed.

“Oh, so you _weren’t_ going to have someone shake him down for the rest of your money?”

“That’s not the point,” said Eleanor, her eyes narrowed in a glare.

“Then what fucking is, Eleanor?” Charles asked. He didn’t wait for her reply. “Fucking hell, I didn’t come here to fight."

“The fucking point is that you have no right to meddle in my affairs,” she said, her face only two feet from his. He had a sudden desire to kiss her, but that would have been a decidedly bad idea. "Decisions regarding my clients are _mine_ to make, not yours."

“And when those decisions directly effect me and my crew?"

“That’s Flint’s concern. Not yours."

“Right. Good to know where we stand, then,” said Vane, his voice bitter and angry as he stormed out of Eleanor’s office.

 

Back at the warehouse, Silver was sitting on the couches with Max. Nearly the entire team had shown up shortly after the pizzas. Billy and Ben were in their corner working on reconstructing the vault from the plans Vane and Flint had taken. Idelle and Blackbeard were at one of the computer desks, presumably working on his false identity, and Anne was at the other computer with Featherstone, looking for somewhere they could steal the chemicals she would need. Rackham and Vane were MIA, but Silver had heard the former man had just gotten a job at the information desk at the Rogers Museum, so he didn’t expect to see much of him for a while.

After they’d finished their pizza, Silver expected Flint would call him back into his office, but he never did. He could see through the blinds into his office that Flint was on the phone, and, judging by the look on his face, it wasn’t a pleasant conversation. Silver decided he would hang out with Max until he was summoned.

“Do you think Flint could be gay?” Silver wondered, earning a quick slap on the arm from Max. “What? I’m allowed to hope.”

“He is our _employer_ ,” said Max. “Whether he likes men or not should be irrelevant to you.”

“Okay, but, have you _seen_ him? How am I supposed to just ignore _that_ ,” Silver said, his mind conjuring images of Flint. When he was left to his own devices, Silver found he thought of him often. He’d never been particularly into gingers, but now all he could think about was red hair grasped tight between his fingers.

“Simple,” said Max. “Think of the money instead.”

Silver considered that for a moment, but then Flint left his office and started walking toward them and thoughts of the money took a backseat to the way Flint filled out his suit. 

Flint stopped at the table with the electric kettle on it and set about making himself a cup of tea. The water was on its way to boiling when Silver stood up to face Flint. Flint sensed the movement and looked at him expectantly.

“Will we be training any more, or are you done ravaging my mind for the day?” Silver asked. He’d only meant to say the first part, but his mouth had a tendency of running away from him. Flint gave him a curious look.

“The ravaging is done for the day, I suppose. Unless you wanted to come back for more,” he said, and Silver nearly choked. Was he _flirting_ with him? The possibility warmed Silver’s blood, and then he had an _idea_. 

“Tempting as that offer is, I think I’m going to see if Billy needs any help.” Max laughed behind him, and Silver categorically ignored her. Flint looked over to where Billy and Ben were working with power tools. 

“Have at it,” said Flint, a skeptical, but amused look on his face.

“Great, I will,” said Silver, and Flint poured the water, now boiled, into his mug before he walked back to his office. Max grabbed Silver's hand and pulled him down onto the couch.

“You can’t be serious,” said Max. “You’re not really going to go over there, are you?” she pointed in Billy’s general direction.

“Of course I am,” said Silver. His plan was simple. Step one, help Billy and get attractively sweaty in the process. Step two, have Flint see him like that. Step three, profit? At the very least, he should get an inkling as to whether Flint was attracted to men or not.

“You, John never-had-a-real-job-in-his-life Silver, are going to go over there and do some manual labor?” she asked, an incredulous look on her face. 

“Yes,” he said, and Max studied his face a moment before she laughed again. “What, what’s so funny?”

“You’re doing this for _him_ , aren’t you?” she asked, gesturing toward Flint’s office. Damn her for knowing him too well. 

“Are you going to talk me out of it?” he asked, and she smiled wickedly.

“ _Non_ ,” she said. “I think I’d rather enjoy the show."

“Fine,” said Silver, and he headed over to where Billy was. 

 

Flint sat at his desk and sipped his tea, silently mourning the fact that he’d forgotten to add milk. He’d always considered himself a hard person to distract, but there was something about Silver that drew him in despite his best efforts to ignore it. All that talk of ravaging had Flint’s mind going places, but he was blessedly interrupted by a knock at his door.

Vane opened it without waiting for an answer. He looked agitated, but Flint already knew why. 

“Have you heard from Jack?” asked Flint, looking at Vane across his desk.

“Yeah, I spoke to him an hour ago,” said Vane. “He’s settling into his job at the front desk. Said there’s a back entrance and exit for employees that we might be able to use to get out, there’s not as much security there.” Flint nodded thoughtfully. “How are things here?”

“Billy and Ben should be done with the reconstruction in a week, maybe a few days if we’re lucky. Max can’t do much until that’s done, and Anne’s looking for a place we can get the chemicals she needs. Idelle’s working on Teach's cover, but we still don’t know how we’re going to even get them in the same room."

“Might have a solution to that, actually,” said Vane. “Jack also mentioned that there’s some fancy party the museum is putting on next weekend and Hamilton should be there. Sounds like the perfect opportunity to get to him and set up whatever Featherstone needs set up to get our camera feed up and running.”

Flint leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard. It did seem like the perfect opportunity. “Sounds promising,” he said, and made a note of the date on his calendar.

“How’s the kid? Think he’ll be ready?” asked Vane.

“I worked with him earlier today. He’s a natural liar, works well under pressure. He should do fine in the field,” he answered. He would never admit it, but he was somewhat impressed with how Silver had done in their training session. A lesser man would’ve buckled under the pressure of Flint’s questions and challenges, but he held his own quite well. “He’s helping Billy and Ben with the vault too, apparently.” Granted, there was a lot Flint did not know about Silver, but from what he did know, he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why he would willingly do something like that. 

"Good,” Vane nodded, and there was a beat of silence before Flint spoke.

“So I spoke to Eleanor,” he said. “She seemed fit to be tied. Any idea why that might be?”

Vane let out a huff. “She’s just angry I solved her problem before she could.”

“Well, you better fucking fix it before she tries to have you kicked off the crew,” said Flint. Flint knew Vane didn’t have to wonder if she really would; she’d already done it before. “Give her a day to cool off and then go talk to her. She will see reason if you don’t provoke her again.”

Vane groaned, his head tipped back in his chair so he could glare at the ceiling. 

“God, I hate this,” Vane said. 

“What?” asked Flint.

“You know what,” said Vane, still looking skyward. Or, ceiling-ward, as the case may be. “This fucking hold she has on me.”

Flint thought they were both being fucking ridiculous, but it really wasn’t any of his business. What was his business was whether his partner in crime lived to break the law another day, and if this bullshit with Eleanor went unresolved, he wasn’t confident he wouldn’t be leading this crew alone. 

“Just, go talk to her, tell her how you feel,” he said, and Vane finally did look at him now, his trademark scowl present and accounted for. “Or don’t, I don’t fucking care,” Flint continued with an exasperated sigh, “Just find a way to apologize and move on. We have work to do.”

“I know,” said Vane. “Fuck, I know.” He was quiet for a moment, and then changed the subject. “What do you say we take this new information about the party to the crew?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Flint said, glad to leave the Eleanor issue behind them. He stood up and followed Vane out the door, and he’d be lying if he said the first thing his gaze sought wasn’t Silver across the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the new update! It's been like a million years since I've written anything at all, so I'm a little nervous about this haha. Comments are greatly appreciated!
> 
> If you want, come follow me on tumblr! You can yell in my inbox, it'll be fun. My url is the same as my username on here, prouvaireafterdark


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